Vodka & Cigarettes
by Traumaddict
Summary: "Dammit, Cas," exhaled Dean, "that's a whole lot of vodka," "I'm Russian," was his clipped reply as he traded the bottle for the cigarette, drawing the chemicals inside his lungs. In the aftermath of familial dispute which ultimately shatters Castiel, Dean tries to pick up the pieces.


Vodka & Cigarettes

He'd been ringing the door bell for a few minutes before he just let himself in, unsurprised at the state of Castiel's home. Most of the heavy sixty inch in the corner was on the floor, like pretty much everything else, half-buried by papers all stamped with a Boston social services insignia. The drapes hung off their rails by barely a thread and there were glass puddles under the bookcase adjacent to the door, likely having everything to do with the photo frames lying face-down on the carpet. The dude's bungalow was a mess. That much was obvious. Dean followed the carnage throughout the entire first storey, finding cutlery splattered over the vinyl in the kitchen, a gaping chasm in the bathroom mirror, and the canvas in the hallway, slit to ribbons.

The second storey followed a similar pattern. But, he headed straight to the master bedroom instead, flinching at the contrast it had with the rest of the house— the room was the eye of the storm, having virtually been untouched by Castiel's deranged rage. The bedspread was made and the dresser drawers safely pocketed, with the curtains drawn. His tablet cast a beam of pallid light over his friend's face; getting caught on the sharp 'v' of his furrowed brows and the hard lines splintering away from his frowning mouth and narrowed eyes. The only things that were out of place was the chair centred in the room, the bottle of Stolichnaya at his parted lips and the menthol poised between his index and middle fingers. His trench coat was slung over the back of the chair, his tie loose at his throat, and sleeves rolled unceremoniously to his elbows.

_"Dammit, Cas," exhaled Dean, "that's a whole lot of vodka,"_

"I'm _Russian_," was his clipped reply as he traded the bottle for the cigarette, drawing the chemicals inside his lungs. No wonder his voice was so raspy, he looked like he was once a one-pack a day kind of person.

"I think you should slow down," he bit out and approached the other man. He tried to keep his voice light, good-natured, and even dished out a smile he knew Castiel would see right through, but as expected, he just chugged back the bottle again, probably because he'd been asked to stop.

"Why are you here?" he demanded after he swallowed – that had got to be _scalding _on his throat – and inhaled another puff of smoke. He didn't sound drunk, not even in the slightest, but he had to be— there was an empty bottle of red on his nightstand and a couple of cans of beer that looked like they might've been the trio he had noticed went missing earlier that evening.

"You called, remember?" Dean urged, coming round to perch on the foot of Cas' bed, an arm's length away from his weary friend. He ached to reach out, to touch his shoulder, cup his nape, but with the conditions, he restrained himself. Instead, he fisted the denim over his knees and exhaled, trying to be the person that Castiel had been when Dean had lashed out all those months ago. Only in theory, was it easy.

His mouth thinned even more and his teeth started to grit. "I didn't think you'd actually come,"

"Well, I did." He willed his shoulders to relax. "So, talk to me,"

Cas didn't answer straight away, but could you really blame him? He'd stampeded through his own home like a man possessed, destroying the only oasis he had since his reluctant transfer from Boston. Not that he was a materialistic man. Just, Dean knew that so much of his belongings carried a story of sorts. The grandfather clock he'd passed on the way upstairs, the one with the cracked face, was handed down to him from, ironically enough, his grandmother. The throw rug slick black now with blood – the one that had been partly stuffed under the sofa – was a gift from his adopted brother, Balthazar. Something had obviously unsettled him, _disturbed_ him, so intimately, that he'd gone out to trash everything he loved. He'd never seen someone so self destructive since... well, himself.

"I had a twin brother," he relented, at last.

"Had?" Dean echoed.

"Yeah." He paused to take another swig of his vodka, but this time, he didn't drink nearly as much. It was probably getting a bit low, anyway. "We never really had anything in common. I liked the books but he'd always preferred the movies. We had the same face but we were as different as night and day. The only thing we really agreed on was the matching tattoo we got when we were eighteen. Our parents were furious." His dragged his hand, the one with the cigarette butt, down his face and braced his elbows on his thighs, leaning closer to Dean. He was, of course, referring to massive wings inked into his back and along the backs of his biceps. "He was my best friend."

"I can't even imagine what'd be like to lose Sammy—" His heart tightened at a world where his goofy, awkward little brother didn't exist. He was the only reason he'd remained afloat after all the bullcrap with their dad. "—so, I can't even begin to understand what it was like for you,"

"It's not your fault, Dean. You don't have to sound so apologetic." His tenor, so low and so husky, cracked. "It was no one's fault, really. Just, bad weather. He'd lost control of the car and went sailing over the side of the bridge—" He provided a demonstration via his hands and when Dean looked into his eyes, he saw a subdued sadness, an ongoing mourning. "—since then, I've found myself wondering the same question. Over and over."

"And, what's that?"

"Am I still a twin?" He asked, meeting the Winchester's eyes. "Despite, you know, the fact that mine has flown ahead of me,"

Dean actually, _legitimately_, flinched at the loneliness he heard. He scrubbed his hands together slowly, not quite sure how to reply. "What do you think?"

"I think..." Castiel rose to his feet in a graceless motion. He dropped the bottle, now empty, and folded the smoke under itself on the chair's arm. "...I'm gonna need another bottle."

"_No_." He jerked forward, grappling onto Cas' elbows. The other man swayed as he tried to step back and almost collapsed in the process. "I think you've had more than enough for one night,"

"Your eyes are green," he blurted instead. Dean had _no clue _how he could have possibly made that assessment, considering the room was relatively dark, aside from the tablet's dimmed glow, but he didn't comment. "Like, _really _green. Sam has green eyes too, but they're not nearly as bright and they've got a bit of brown in them. But, _yours..._? Mostly green."

"Mostly green...?" Dean echoed as he dragged Castiel's arm around his shoulder and pivoted his body on one foot so he could dispatch his friend on the bed easily.

He sank onto the covers without complaint. "Yeah. Yours has a bit of yellow in them."

"How can you even _tell_?" Dean admonished. "It's almost pitch-black in here,"

"I've had a lot of time to admire them," was Castiel's instantaneous answer.

His face remained slack and he was unembarrassed, even though Dean was ninety-nine percent sure that a flush had crept over his face from his collarbones. Refusing to mull over the connotations of that declaration, he nodded and dragged the seat over to the bed before slouching into it. "So, that's what this is all about... Your brother...?"

"_Twin_," corrected Cas. "And, no,"

"Then, tell me," he pushed. "You were the rock I needed when I was losing my mind. Let me be the same for you,"

Castiel scrutinised Dean for a long time before he finally started speaking again: "He was married. The family never really liked her because of her drinking habits but she made him happy, and I guess... he made her a better person. So, we tolerated her and made her feel welcome as best as we could. But, considering we could be barely make each other feel welcome, it was a pretty feeble attempt. Anyway, they had a daughter. Claire—" For the second time that night, his voice shattered, and this time, so did Dean's restraint. He snatched at Cas' hand, parting his bulky fingers with his own, and squeezed. The other man just took it all in his stride calmly and clenched Dean's palm tightly. "—is her name. After my twin passed away, her mother went on a bender. She drank non-stop and was silently taking out her anger and despair on Claire. I couldn't stand for it... So..."

"So..." mimed Dean.

"I picked her up from school without Amelia's consent one day. I had every intention of taking her to the hospital, to have her injuries checked out, because she was so badly bruised. They were discreet, perhaps, but they were there. Once I had her checked out and safe, I was going to take Amelia to court and challenge her for custody. But, I didn't even make it halfway there because Amelia had watched me pull Claire out of school and had called the police." He laughed; the sound mirthless against Dean's ears. "I was arrested for attempt of abduction but the charges were dropped not even a week later. Still, the damage was done. I was suspended from work until further notice and Amelia refused to let me see Claire. Even now, months later, she's not permitting anyone from my side of the family to spend time with her. And I can only imagine what's going on in Claire's head— she loves my sister, Anna, and can't get enough of Gabe's jokes, no matter how crude. Not to mention, I torture myself every day, because I _don't _know how Amelia is treating my niece behind closed doors."

Castiel was sobbing by this point. But, he looked like he'd cried himself out hours ago. The tears didn't come. Instead, the same grating noises came from the most skewed parts of his soul, repeating like a broken record. He fell against Dean when he leaned forward to catch him, burying his face against his collar. There was nothing tender or gentle about the embrace— it was a shockingly desperate hug, in which Cas' hands ducked under Dean's armpits, and clenched his plaid shirt along his shoulders so tight, that the fabric strained on its elastic, digging painfully into his chest. His breath was hot and acidic against Dean's neck, fanning out a stink of too much alcohol in too short of a time. He didn't complain, however, and just squeezed back and tried not to fall over.

"I'm here for you," Dean lulled when the worst of it had ended.

He hiccupped as he pulled away. "Today is Claire's twelfth birthday."

"_Cas_." Dean sighed and pressed the back of his hand against Castiel's cheek. Much to his surprise, he kissed his fingers. But, he stamped down the flutter in his chest. "Is there anything you need...? And, before you say more alcohol, I'm telling you that's the one thing I won't get you,"

"I don't need more alcohol," he relented, "I want it, but I don't need it,"

"Let me help you through this," Dean insisted, running his blunt fingernails into the thicket of Castiel's short hair. It was mostly unwashed and he could feel the dandruff part along Cas' scalp, catching under his skin, but he didn't really care.

His eyelids slid shut and he puffed out a shallow sigh. "Stay with me tonight,"

"I was going to do that anyway—"

"No." Cas shook his head with eyes still closed, patted his bed and repeated: "_Stay _with me tonight,"

"Oh." Dean stopped moving all together. Sure, they'd been at this kind of junction for a while now, neither of them quite willing to make the leap, but if he was being completely honest, he hadn't expected Castiel to make it. He had always seemed too composed and light years out of Dean's league. Cas also acted like it too— fitting the haughty, opinionated idea that Dean had always associated with people possessing considerable wealth. Sure, in light of their current conversation, Dean had learnt many things about that were miles away from his initial impression of Cas, but spending the night with him, and sharing his bed, were two different things entirely.

"You don't have too," Castiel pointed out and carefully removed Dean's hand from his hairline. He didn't sound angry but the disappointment in his tone was a heavy thing. His eyes opened – bluer than should be humanely possible – and there was no accusation there either. "Not if you don't want too,"

"I do want too..." He admitted slowly. "I'm just worried that you might regret it after. That I'm just a means to an end,"

"You aren't. Not you." Castiel reached forward and ran his calloused palm along Dean's budding stubble.

Dean wasn't sure what eventually made him concede – pity, surprisingly, didn't contribute to his decision at all – but he knew he was more or less screwed when Cas' entire body shifted towards him, until he was balanced precariously on the foot of the bed. He followed suit, moving to kneel between Cas' parted legs, and held his breath before the kiss even began. It wasn't fireworks. There was no sudden beam of light, telling Dean he'd finally found the one. There wasn't even a ringing in his head. It was just like every other first kiss he'd ever had— hesitant with just the right amount of sensual. Cas had animate hands, moving them down Dean's chest, then back again, until they finally rested on his nape. He tasted like vodka and cigarettes, which was surprisingly good.

* * *

A/N:

_I have ninety-nine responsible and I wrote this instead. Talk about procrastination._

_Anyway, I've been meaning to put this idea to a page for awhile now. Originally, the idea sprang from a multi-chaptered fic that has been storming in my brain for ages, but I always struggled with writing it. So, I just picked the one, complete scene I had in my head from that idea and wrote it out. I'm inconsistent, so don't expect anything like a sequel or a prequel or whatever, because I don't know if I can dish that sort of thing out a second time. Anyway, I feel like this, as a single chapter, acutely captured what I was going for with the original idea. Sure, it has a bunch of gaping holes in where the wider plot should have slid perfectly in, but no one's perfect._

_So, I hoped you merrily digressed this fic because I wrote it instead of doing all the homework I have due tomorrow. Thank you for reading!_

_P.S: Supernatural is, by no means, owned by me._

_P.S: I know I published this awhile ago then deleted it, but looking through this now, I decided to give this another try. Ultimately, I deleted it in a little tantrum I had, but now that weeks have gone by and I am calmer than I was before, I don't see why I don't publish it a second time. It follows my usual angst-y fashion, so please, do not complain to me if it's too tragic for you to bear._

_- Traumaddict._


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